The Letter
by Renee6061
Summary: Clark has to write a letter for a school project, but it's not going so well.


Rating: S for Sappy and Sentimental

Disclaimer: Not my characters.

Author's Note: No matter how you feel about Clana—whether you love it or loathe it—I hope you'll stick with this. It may end up somewhere you don't expect. ;-)

I've been wanting to see something like this on the show for a long time, so I came up with my own version. A big thank you to Smallvillian for her help.

The Letter

_Dear Lana . . ._

Clark had been staring at those two words for so long his eyes were starting to ache. For the dozenth time, he picked up his pen with an air of determination, holding it poised over the paper as if expecting words of wisdom to come pouring magically out. Then he lowered it again and leaned his forehead on his hand, letting out a frustrated sigh.

"Clark?"

The boy jumped and looked up. His father stood at the top of the loft steps, looking at him quizzically. "What's up, son? I've called you for dinner three times."

"Oh, sorry, Dad. I guess I was just so wrapped up in this homework. . . ." He gestured vaguely towards the paper.

Jonathan's face relaxed into a smile. "Words every parent dreams of hearing," he quipped, walking over to Clark's desk. "Tough assignment?"

"You could say that," Clark responded, staring hopelessly down at the paper again. "We've been studying epistolary novels, and—"

"Episto-what?" Jonathan blinked. "Son, you're talking to the guy who made solid Ds in English, remember?"

Clark chuckled. "Sorry. Novels written in the form of letters. The assignment is to write a letter to someone we care about and tell them something we've always wanted or needed to say."

Jonathan raised an eyebrow as he sat down on the sofa. "And then you have to turn this in? Sounds kind of personal for a school assignment."

"No, we don't have to turn it in. We don't even to have to give it to the person if we don't want to. Just discuss in class what we learned about ourselves from writing it, new things we think we may have discovered about the person . . . stuff like that."

"You don't seem too happy about the whole deal," Jonathan remarked, studying his son's downcast face.

Clark shook his head. "I'm just not getting anywhere with it. I mean . . ." He lifted his eyes to his father's, hesitated a second, then blurted out, "When you've messed things up with a person so many times, how can you hope to clear everything up in one letter?"

A look of understanding dawned on Jonathan's face. "I see," he answered pensively. "Well, honestly, I'm not sure you can, Clark. Not in one letter."

Clark looked down again, his expression even more dejected, if that were possible. Jonathan caught the look and hastily corrected himself. "I'm not saying you shouldn't try writing to her, Clark. I just meant—" He paused for a moment, trying to think of a more encouraging way to phrase his thoughts. "Don't get your expectations too high. Think of this as just the first step toward setting things right. What was the assignment—tell the person something you've been needing to tell them?" Clark nodded. "Just focus on that, then. Decide on the one or two things you really need to tell her, and then see where it goes from there."

"Maybe I shouldn't even bother," Clark muttered. "Maybe I should just write a nice, safe letter to Pete and tell him what a good friend he is, or something like that."

"I wouldn't go that far, son," Jonathan said gently. "This could be a really good opportunity for you, at least to repair your friendship with Lana, if nothing else. It's very brave of you to take that chance."

Clark looked at him thoughtfully for a minute. Then the corners of his mouth started to lift. "Just one thing, huh? How about—?" He trailed off meaningfully, then laughed at Jonathan's expression. "Just kidding, Dad. I don't think I'd want to tell the class about my thought processes while writing _that_ letter."

Jonathan had to laugh too, thankful that his son had made it to the point where he could joke about some of his troubles. "No, I guess not." He got to his feet, tiredly rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Well, your mom will be wondering where we disappeared to. Coming in?"

"I'll be right there."

As Jonathan slowly crossed the loft and started back down the stairs, Clark followed him with his eyes, feeling a familiar anxiety pricking at him. Over the last several months, he and his mother had both developed a habit of watching Jonathan with anxious eyes when he wasn't looking, though neither of them could have said exactly what they were expecting to see. Typically, his father had brushed off the concern in their faces when he caught them doing it, protesting half-jokingly that he felt like a fly under a microscope.

Right now, though, Clark's thoughts were only partly on his father's health. Something Jonathan had said had triggered a memory in him. Something about taking chances.

-----

What in the hell did I really accomplish, anyway? . . . There's so many chances I never took.

The memory had fully emerged now. As Clark lay awake that night, he could hear the pain in his father's voice again, and see the defeated slump of his shoulders, as clearly as if they'd just had the conversation five minutes ago. And he could vividly remember his own shock and fear—as if Jonathan had suddenly turned into someone he'd never seen before.

Even though Clark now understood a little better where some of that pain was coming from, after the events of the summer that his father had foreseen and tried to prevent, he knew that didn't account for all of it.

Clark sighed deeply. _Sounds like lost opportunities can hurt pretty badly_, he reflected, staring into the darkness.

The next moment he had sat up abruptly and turned on his light, shoving the blankets out of the way. He went over to sit at his desk and grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper, not caring how late it was. He knew now what he needed to say, and had to get it down before he lost it. Brushing the hair out of his eyes, he bent over the page and started to write.

-----

"Clark?" Jonathan asked as he walked through the loft the next evening. "How's the letter coming?"

"It's done." Sitting at his desk, Clark pushed aside his effort of last night, having just finished making a clean copy of it. He picked up the new copy, folding it carefully.

Jonathan came over and laid a hand on his shoulder, looking inquiringly at him. "Happy with it?"

Clark drew a long breath. "I think so. I think I said what I needed to say."

Jonathan smiled and squeezed his shoulder before letting go. "Good. I guess you're ready to go deliver it, then."

"I guess so." Clark stood up with the letter in his hand, which was shaking a little. He handed it to his father.

Jonathan looked at him uncomprehendingly. "You want me to check it for you?" he asked, surprised.

"No." Clark managed a small smile. "I just delivered it."

Jonathan's gaze went from Clark to the letter to Clark again, his brow furrowing as he started to understand. "But—" he began, a little dazedly. "I thought you were—"

"I was planning to," Clark said quietly. "Then—I realized there was a bigger opportunity I needed to take." He glanced down at the letter in his father's hand, suddenly more nervous than ever. "I'll get out of here and let you read it," he said all in one breath, and dashed at superspeed down the stairs before his father had fully grasped what he'd said.

Jonathan stared after him for a few seconds. Then, still in a daze, he walked to the sofa, sat down, and unfolded the letter.

-----

_Dear Dad,_

_Last spring, you said something to me that I never answered. I was so confused and worried about you that I couldn't come up with anything to say. But I've had time since then to think about what you said. And last night I realized that I still owed you an answer._

_You told me you were wondering what you'd accomplished in your life. I hope I won't sound too egotistical if I point out that you've done an amazing job of raising your son—a son that many people wouldn't have had any idea how to raise._

_You always make me feel safe and secure. You show me the understanding I need when I come to you with problems that nobody could possibly understand, problems that even _I _don't understand. I don't know how you do it, but you do. There have been so many times that I've felt like a freak who didn't belong here. But whenever that happens, I know that a talk with my dad will take away the pain and loneliness and make me feel like a normal person. That feeling is the best gift I could ever ask for from anyone._

_Even when I get upset with you for being protective, I know why you do it: because you value my safety above everything else. I really do appreciate that, even though I complain sometimes. And I appreciate that you've been trying to let me grow up and start setting my own boundaries. Although we don't always agree on where the boundaries should be, you've taught me to make those decisions wisely. I would have ruined my life, all of our lives, so many times if I hadn't heard your voice in my head reminding me to be careful—though not so careful that I missed the chance to help someone who needed me. _

_Dad, I know you blame yourself for what happened this summer. You shouldn't. You did what you had to do last year, to save me from my own mistakes—and I know what a high price you've been paying ever since. You've always put yourself between me and disaster whenever you could, regardless of the danger to your own life and safety. I wish I had the words to tell you how grateful I am for that. If I had followed the example that you set for me and put other people first, instead of thinking only about myself and my own feelings, I never would have run away in the first place._

_I hope you realize how much I need you—how much I'll always need you—and how very proud I am to be your son. I don't know if you still feel the way you did last spring. But I just wanted you to know that as far as I'm concerned, you're the most accomplished person there is—and the man I hope to become._

_Love, Clark_

-----

Clark leaned his pitchfork against the wall—he could only pitch the same pile of hay so many times, after all—and looked up at the loft, which was still quiet. His father had been up there long enough to read the entire United States Constitution by now. Clark toyed again with the idea of using his X-ray vision, and then discarded it again. But he knew he couldn't take this suspense one more minute.

Wiping his damp palms on his jeans, he walked up the stairs as laggingly as a little boy about to be punished, deliberately keeping his head down. He took several steps into the loft before raising his eyes just enough to peek at his father. Jonathan was sitting very still on the sofa, his eyes fixed on the letter in his lap.

"Dad?" Clark ventured timidly.

Jonathan looked up with a start. The tears on his face glistened in the lamplight. But his blue eyes were radiant. "Clark," he said shakily. "Clark, I—I—"

Clark didn't wait for more. With a smile breaking over his face, he went quickly to the sofa and threw his arms around his father, who clung to him. Clark could feel Jonathan trembling as a fresh storm of tears overcame him, and he found himself stroking his father's back with a soothing hand, as if their roles had been reversed for just a minute.

"Thank you, son," Jonathan finally whispered, in a choked voice.

"No, Dad," Clark said softly, still smiling as he closed his eyes and rested his head against his father's. "Thank you."

The End


End file.
